


Something Only Time Can Cure

by Star_less



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: (or at least mildly anxious), Comfort, Cuddling & Snuggling, Cutesy, Domestic Fluff, F/M, Fever, Fluff, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Life in the TARDIS, Neediness, Not Beta Read, One Shot, Sick Character, Sickfic, Silly, Slice of Life, The Doctor (Doctor Who) is a Mess, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-26
Updated: 2019-11-26
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:07:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21576550
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Star_less/pseuds/Star_less
Summary: He walked around her quickly. “We need to get you to the infirmary.” God, she could have picked up anything - they had been everywhere. They had tried those sweets in Barcelona, they had visited the ice-capped Sensphere, they had— they had—She laughed again. It sounded like it took a lot of effort but she also sounded genuinely amused. “Doctor, we’ve just come back from Mum’s,” she reminded. They’d popped in with the washing and snuck a bit of grub in, but Mum was smothering with cold so their visit was very short lived. “Picked it up from her. I know it.”Rose gets ill, the Doctor has a mild moment of panic, then he pulls himself together and looks after her.
Relationships: Tenth Doctor & Rose Tyler, Tenth Doctor/Rose Tyler
Comments: 8
Kudos: 75





	Something Only Time Can Cure

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for vomiting!!! this is a sickfic after all!

“Where do you want to go today?” The Doctor beamed, throwing down a lever on the TARDIS console as he prepared to set the old girl in motion. Rose wasn’t actually with him yet, but the TARDIS had already flung open her doors for the morning and flooded with light in preparation for the day ahead, so he assumed she wouldn’t be long...  
Behind him, he felt a presence. The grin twitched excitedly at the corners of his mouth; not perturbed by such an early wake up call he bounced around the console room with all the energy of a puppy. “Poosh? Sinastra, have I ever taken you to the crystal caves in Sinastra? _No_!— what was it you said?” In anticipation now the movements got bouncier, buttons pressed quicker, levers tugged. “Guy Fawkes! You wanted a bit of a history lesson, yeah?” He waggled his brows, pride swelling through. “Right man, right place. Bet I can teach you more than your history teacher ever could.”

“Doctor, I- I don’t... I don’t think I can stomach a trip today.” Rose whispered from the doorway, wilting against it. It was only then that the Doctor finally looked up and took a very long look at his companion.  
The sight made him flinch. Rose was white, for a start; whiter than white - grey, like all the life had fallen out of her. Yet her cheeks were red, flooded, as if she was red-hot. A slick of sweat, to confirm his suspicions, coated her forehead in a dull shine. She was trembling, and looked as though it was taking all of her energy just to stand there and speak to him. 

“Oh, Rose...” the Doctor murmured at last, sucking his teeth. “Oh, _Rose_ , you look _awful_.”  
There was nothing else he could think to say. In all honesty, the realisation that his companion was sick was a terrifying one. You wouldn’t think it - he was the Doctor - by title alone he made people well. But there was still something—deep down, where he’d never admit it—so alien about his companions too. Humans. They seemed to get sick so easily, attracting germs like a magnet no matter where they were. But that meant they deteriorated quickly too. No regenerations. No bouncing back. 

Rose laughed weakly. “Not as awful as I feel.” She managed. 

The Doctor rushed to her side, squinting at her tear-filled eyes and her runny nose and the tremble in her arms. “Where do you think you picked it up?” He asked, trying not to let panic slump into his voice. He would do her no good if he panicked. He walked around her quickly. “We need to get you to the infirmary.” God, she could have picked up anything - they had been everywhere. They had tried those sweets in Barcelona, they had visited the ice-capped Sensphere, they had— they had—

She laughed again. It sounded like it took a lot of effort but she also sounded genuinely amused. “Doctor, we’ve just come back from Mum’s,” she reminded. They’d popped in with the washing and snuck a bit of grub in, but Mum was smothering with cold so their visit was very short lived. “Picked it up from her. I know it.”

No but she had— _so much presented in the same way— rhinestone fever, Sentoxin, gas poisoning, hell even the earliest stages of petrifold regression started out with your typical fever_ —she could have contracted anything, across entire galaxies, and who was to say he could cure her? “Can I at least take you to the infirmary?” He pleaded, squeezing her shoulders. She didn’t have the energy to argue back with him, even when her shoulders ached where he had pressed; just sluggishly nodded. Grinning a grin that was full of relief the Doctor ushered her into a wheelchair (that the all-seeing, ever-helpful TARDIS had pushed forward, of course) and wheeled her down a corridor.

He had performed every test on her he could possibly think of. CT, MRI, blood counts, heart rate, blood pressure, dip test, liver function... She had laid there as compliant as ever (grateful for the sleep) squirming in discomfort every now and then. “Doctor,” she rasped at one point, rubbing her eyes. “Is this going to take much longer?”

“...no,” he lied. Rose had never been in the infirmary before today, so he could spin her a line about how these tests just took time and to be patient. Rapid, he began unrolling an IV line, just in case he had to flush out any toxins...  
_She’s fine, Doctor_ , silently soothed the TARDIS - a little massaging message to the back of his mind. At the same time, the monitor flashed with the same diagnosis it had been giving him for the last twenty minutes: _viral infection contracted. Symptoms include fever, congestion, aches and pain. Possible vomiting risk. Location of contraction: Powell Estate, Peckham. Rest and rehydration required._  
Slowly, he lowered the IV line and sighed to himself in defeat. “All done.” He whispered. “Let’s get you back to bed.”

Rose collapsed back into her bedsheets, mumbling in exhaustion but sleepily keeping her eyes open to catch the television. The TARDIS had decided she watch Eastenders and it was playing at a low volume so not to hurt her aching head. The rest of her bedroom was silent.  
It was blissful.  
...almost blissful, anyway.  
All she needed was a day of rest and she was sure she’d feel well enough to get right back to time travelling. She could help but feel for the Doctor all the same. He had never suited quiet days and always had to be buried in something if the TARDIS ever needed to recharge and forced him into a quiet day anyway. But the _look_ on his face when she had said she was ill... she almost wished she had kept her mouth shut. Even now, when it was quiet, it was too quiet. He was being painstakingly quiet. The sound of him rattling around fixing this or burbling on about that (a sound she had come to love) was missing. And with the sound of the Doctor missing and only Eastenders wittering on in the background, it almost felt like she was back in her bedroom at home. She almost expected Mum to pop around the door with a flask of warm tea, a plate of ham sandwiches (‘starve a cold, feed a fever, Eh sweetheart?’ was one of Jackie’s favourite sayings, along with every other British mother ever) and two Lemsip. Homesickness swirled. She drifted in and out of sleep for what felt like hours in an attempt to combat it, blinking at the digital clock on her bedside table every now and then.  
first it was 9:14am…  
…then it was 11:59  
then it was 12:17 and then- well, then, Rose was fed up of laying there.  
Groaning with exertion, she sat up. The room tilted and spun her around as if she had just wobbled onto a fairground ride (or perhaps just had a bit too much to drink.)  
She shut her eyes against it and moaned, fighting back the wave of nausea that kneaded her gut.  
“Doctor?” She called. She wasn’t sure if she shouted for him or whispered for him considering the cotton wool that wadded her ears and right through her skull but he flew to the door in a matter of seconds looking only mildly disheveled. She suspected she had shouted. 

“...yes?” He asked, peeping around the doorway.

“Are you... are you doing anything?” Rose stammered. Suddenly it came to her that she might’ve just been being a bit clingy, but as quick as it came to her she decided to hell with neediness, she was sick.

“Do you need me to?” He frowned, something pinching in his stomach. “Not feeling any better yet?”

“No, just...” Rose began quickly trying to soothe the Doctor’s obvious flare of anxiety, “...just needed some company.”

The Doctor murmured in understanding and nodded. Hands in his pockets, he perched on the edge of her bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Bored.” Rose picked at a thread on the bedsheets. “I...”  
_‘forgot what it was like to be ill, being with you,’_ she meant to say. What she instead did was make a sound a bit like the ribbit of a frog and lurched forward before being, quite spectacularly, sick. “Whoa!” the Doctor gasped, quick reflexes sending him lurching for the wastepaper basket which was thrust under her chin in record time. The Doctor could only watch, murmur soft words of encouragement, and move to ease back Rose’s hair as she continued to make all manner of odd noises and retches. As her stomach settled a handful of slow minutes later she moved back with a shudder, eyes wet with tears. “All of that for nothing. I hate being sick.”

The Doctor stroked her arm lightly. The area tingled and ached. “You don’t have anything in your stomach.” he murmured, flipping the bin into the floor next to the bed. “You need to eat. What do you want? I’ll make you anything.”  
The thought of food made Rose’s belly flip. Hand over her mouth, she groaned at him. “You’ll feel better.” He insisted. 

Rose heard her Mum having a rare agreement with the Doctor somewhere in the back of her fever addled brain. “Can I... can I have some ham sandwiches? And— and tea. In a flask. No sugar.”  
~

“Your dinner is served, ma’am.” The Doctor smiled, coming into Rose’s bedroom fifteen or so minutes later carrying a plate of ham sandwiches (cut into squares, crusts sliced off) and a flask of tea. He put the plate in front of her, tried to convince himself that the queasy look she gave the sandwiches was because of her illness and not because he was a bad chef, and then offered the flask. She grabbed the flask with trembling eager hands, gulping the drink down to wash the acidity of her mouth away. It pumped down her throat, hot but not too hot—just like Mum made!—and she sighed in bliss and settled back.  
Suddenly, Rose was ten years old again, hot tea settling in her stomach and lulling her to sleep.  
“You’ll make yourself sick again if you’re not careful.” The Doctor chastised gently with a smile, glad his efforts were appreciated at least.

”‘S just like Mum makes. Can’t help it.” Rose’s voice came out in a purr, fogged by sleepy fever. She lay and watched the Doctor quietly.

He was happy to let her do exactly that; but held up a square of sandwich in front of her face all the same. “Try a little bit, for me?” He pleaded, slotting a thin strand of hair behind her ear. “You’ll feel better.”

Sighing, she took the square and nibbled at it. Her jaw was slow like she was chewing through treacle and her mouth soured in that teasing way that said she might be sick—but thankfully the square went down and sort of felt like it would stay that way. Her jaws battled with another square which also went down pretty comfortably, but her stomach squeezed a little while after.  
She groaned. “...no more.”

“Good job.” The Doctor nodded, moving the plate away. Faint praise, but it pattered down on Rose’s scalp like rain in the sunshine.  
She managed a wobbly smile, gazing at him as he disappeared right until he shuffled back in again empty handed and took his place back on the end of her bed. “You’re so lucky.” she croaked. 

“Lucky how?” The Doctor quirked a brow in interest.

“You never get ill.”

“Oh I do,” the Doctor scoffed, wincing. “You humans are just sicker for a bit longer than I am.”

Rose hummed. Well. That was that on that. She turned her head to the television and the TARDIS, recognising this, moved the volume up a few notches. The Doctor turned his head to the television too, cracking a pleased smile. “Eastenders. I haven’t watched this in ages. Who else has died?”

The thought of walking the Doctor through the entirety of Eastenders’ storylines over the past ten or so years was a hard slog that Rose felt she didn’t have the energy for. She laughed weakly and pulled the covers up over herself.  
Two minutes later they came back down.  
Too hot.  
Four minutes later they went back up.  
Too cold.  
Three and a half minutes later she curled up into herself and groaned. Then shifted. Then again. Then, grudgingly, down the blankets came.

“What’s the matter?” The Doctor asked in concern. 

“…I need a wee.” Rose flushed pink, grumbling and toying with the blankets. The bathroom was only a corridor or so away but as she looked out of her open bedroom door it suddenly felt as though it was miles and miles away. 

“…Oh.” Murmured the Doctor. For some reason that wasn’t a possibility he had even remotely considered. Next to him Rose stood, shakily. The room began to spin again, really rather rapidly this time, and she whimpered as something warm began rising in her chest. She knew exactly what that meant. Not again. Not now. She shook her head in upset.  
“Hey, hey, I’ve got you. I’ve got you, come on.” The Time Lord took Rose by the arm and she pressed all of her weight into him in an instant knowing if she didn’t her legs—all jellylike—would buckle under her. “Easy, there we go. Come on.”  
The entire trek to the bathroom, the Doctor’s words were a soft constant comfort. Pulling gently to a stop outside of the open bathroom door, he rubbed the small of her back. “I’ll be right here.”  
In the bathroom, Rose pressed her forehead against the tile on the wall, groaning. The cold tile kissed along her sweaty hot-with-fever forehead. It felt nice, so nice she almost didn’t want to move; if only her bladder had the same idea.  
~

Back in bed, having survived the trek back from the bathroom with the Doctor in tow, the room hadn’t stopped spinning. If she didn’t know any better she would have asked the Time Lord if he had sneakily set the TARDIS in motion through the time vortex when she wasn’t looking. Everywhere she looked—which was a struggle in itself for her pounding head, mind you – the room span with her.  
The Doctor, who was sat obediently at the end of her bed, split into two and floated around somewhere. Except it wasn’t just the Doctor, nor the room, but her bed – rocking and swelling up and down like a sailing boat on the choppiest of choppy seas. She whimpered again, her chest rising and falling quickly in an attempt to hold off; those familiar squeaking and retching noises re-emerging.  
Recognising them now as warning signs the Doctor snapped forward, wastepaper bin under Rose’s chin once more. The silent room filled with a mingle of retches, whimpers, and weak moans as her stomach emptied with each heave.  
“There’s the ham sandwich…” the Doctor murmured. Shifting position, he got all of Rose’s hair out of her face and patted her back in between each retch. “Glowing review of my culinary skills, then.”

Too busy trying to cough up every last morsel in her stomach to respond, Rose appreciated that the Doctor could find humour in the situation regardless. The pressure of his hand on her back was a welcome sensation, delicately easing away the aches that forced themselves in with every heave of her chest. Face still sealed in the bin, her nose wrinkled at the pungent smell and – slowly, hesitantly, making sure her stomach wanted to expel no more – peeled herself away from it with a grimace. 

“Done?” the Doctor asked gingerly. 

Rose nodded. Her eyes were wet and stung. Possibly from the effort of forcing up all of her stomach contents or possibly just because she was feeling a bit sorry for herself. Self conscious, she wrapped her arms around herself as the Doctor took away the soiled wastepaper bin. “I’m just going to clear this away. If you still feel sick, just…” he shrugged, thinking it over. “Shout.”  
~

“I want my Mum.” Rose mumbled unhappily, her voice all cloying and small as though she were about to start crying. She didn’t know what it was. It wasn’t out of neediness, because she considered herself independent enough to spend time away from her mother. But somehow, the fact that she was so far away from her mother and felt so rotten, twisted the knife in just a pinch deeper.

The Doctor patted her knee sympathetically. “…If you want, I can drop you off there.” He reassured. It was a beautiful suggestion, and any other time Rose would have jumped at the chance – but the thought of even the smallest hurtle through the time vortex was enough to make her head pound in agony. Scrunching her face up, she shook her head. 

“…what does she do for you, when you’re sick?” the Time Lord changed tack, interest feathering his voice. He shifted this time from his position at the end of the bed, to squeezing in next to her and sliding a comforting arm around her at the same time. The change in the girl’s demeanour was instant but tiny; she pressed her clammy, hot-then-cool body against his lanky side out of instinct – out of need for comfort. Then, as he rubbed a thumb over her shoulders, she relaxed completely and utterly, her head coming to rest on his shoulder instead of on her pillow; then her sweaty forehead to the cool skin on his neck, drinking him in. “Cuddle,” her voice pawed at him, all hot and feverish. Her eyes closed, her voice fell to a sleepy sort of drone. “M’k me ham s’ndwich… or tea...”

“I’m doing quite well, then.” The Doctor chuckled, shifting in place. “How about a story, you want a story?”

Rose didn’t answer. She almost wanted to ask him whether he thought she was nineteen or nine but if she was being entirely honest, sleepiness was tugging at the corners of her brain again and if there was one thing she’d never say no to it was an excuse to listen to his voice. It was intoxicating when she was well, but when she felt like this it was enthralling – tugged her under into the most peaceful of sleeps. She mumbled.

The Doctor took that as a yes. He took a book from the pocket of his suit, cleared his throat, and began to speak in the softest, most spellbinding voice he could manage. “ _‘Mrs. Thomas Beresford shifted her position on the divan and looked gloomily out of the window of the flat. The prospect was not an extended one, consisting solely of a small block of flats on the other side of the road. Mrs. Beresford sighed and then yawned._

‘ _I wish,_ ’ she said, ‘ _something would happen_.’”

**Author's Note:**

> I couldn't get this idea out of my head for some reason. Comments and kudos appreciated. Knocked this up in a day or so. Should be focusing on uni.


End file.
